


Veni, vidi, adamavi

by celedan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - King Arthur (2004), First Time, King arthur (2004) - Freeform, M/M, Roman Britain, Roman soldier John Watson, Slave Sherlock Holmes, Slaves, Virgin Sherlock Holmes, kind of crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26696152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celedan/pseuds/celedan
Summary: Ioan is the centurion of a small castellum at the British Hadrian's Wall. One day, he meets the Pictish slave Sherlock, and he is fascinated by him. Taking him in, the two develope a unique friendship and soon more. But then one day, Sherlock gets hurt with a poisoned arrow to protect Ioan, and Ioan has to let him go back to his people if he wants him to live, probably never seeing him again.
Relationships: John Watson/Original Character (mentioned), Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade (mentioned), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Veni, vidi, adamavi

**Author's Note:**

> Oh wow, finished! Finally! This poor baby has been in the making for years, but I never was in the mood to continue writing. In the last couple of weeks, I obviously was, thank the Gods.  
> This is the result, now have fun reading.
> 
> By the way; the title can be roughly translated with “I came, I saw, I loved”. Don't know if I got the case right, my Latin was always bad, but you know what I mean nonetheless.

He'd never thought that he would ever have to set foot onto this god-forsaken island again. He'd counted, when he had left Britannia with fourteen years of age, on never having to see this cold, harsh landscape ever again. 

Obviously, he had been wrong.

During the long ride to the one place where he would probably spend the rest of his life or be killed by the Picts very soon, Ioannes couldn't help but visualise the course of his life up until this moment in front of his inner eye (and anyway, what was he supposed to do on such a long, seemingly endless travel but worry his brain over and over again?). As if it had only been yesterday, he still felt the exhilaration that had penetrated his melancholy sadness that he should live in Rome from now on; in Rome, with a brother of his father, a high official at the imperial court so that he could unexpectedly look forward to a life in relative wealth and security. It was bad enough that his father had died a few years ago on the hunt. But now, during an ambush of the Picts, to lose his mother and his older sister, having to listen to their screams as they burned alive in their house, was more than he could bear. Even if he hadn't been all alone from that moment on, he wouldn't have wanted to stay in this country.

Ioannes shook himself impalpably which an observer might have shrugged off as an effete reaction to the unfamiliar cold. The shrill screams of death still rang in his ears so as if he heard them in that moment for real... 

Despite his prolonged grief during the first months with his uncle, his time in Rome had been good. All the new, exotic impressions bombarding him had almost made it impossible to hold fast to his depressed mood.

And then... then, he had met the Emperor... 

Gratian had been a few years older than him, already twenty-one when they'd met. He, the fourteen-year old orphan from the harsh, uncivilized areas of Britannia, couldn't help but be smitten with the young, handsome, and charismatic Emperor. And oviously, even if Ioannes could hardly believe it, this seemed to be mutual because Gratian had taken him under his wing, had been a patron to him, encouraging him to become a soldier, and two years later...

A small smile managed to pull up the corners of his mouth. Even this small motion felt rusty, so as if he hadn't smiled in years. Which could very well be the case, actually. He hadn't been happy and carefree since... since he'd been happy with Gratian. 

Good Lord... Had it been that long? Had he been only sixteen back then?

And had he been only seventeen when Gratian... 

Never, and even if he lived another fifty years, would he forget that day in August. As if it hadn't been humiliating enough after the defeat of Paris to flee from Gratian's opponent Maximus who strove for power in Rome. But this betrayal, this despicable betrayal to be murdered by ones own people! Ioannes had been there, had witnessed Gratian's last breath, his painful, choked screams that he still heard until today in the dark like a voice from the grave. But as clear as Gratian's last moments were to him, as clearly could he see the man's eyes who had murdered him, too.

But before he could take revenge, he had to flee himself because all of Gratian's confidants were hunted down. Even on the run, even fearing for his life, and even as he was in favour with the new Emperor, he was obsessed with only one thought though. Revenge. It took five long years during which he bid his time, during which he tried to lessen his pain at least a little through an excessive, unrestrained life with countless lovers, women as well as (illegally) with men. And at the end, he had faced his mortal enemy. The intoxicating feeling of satisfaction when Andragathius' blood flowed over his hands was soon replaced by crushing emptiness. He'd got the impression his life had lost any sense now that his thirst for revenge was quenched. 

As if fate had seen his hopeless situation, he'd been gravely hurt so that he'd been on the brink of death for a few weeks as the severe wound on his shoulder had gotten infected, feaver dreams holding him in their clutches for long days and nights. 

After, contrary to all the medics' opinion and much to his own disappointment that he wouldn't join Gratian in the afterlife yet, he had recovered, and the new Emperor Theodosius had transferred him for disciplinary reasons. Back to Britannia, together with new troops. Ioannes was supposed to take over the post of centurion of a castellum directly at the Wall. The old one had been killed only recently during a Picts' ambush.

And that was how Constantin Ioannes Honorius now found himself, in the year of the Lord 390, ten years after he had left, back in his god-forsaken homeland. 

It would take them about a day to reach the castellum. He couldn't wait to reach their destination because the nights under the bare sky, and the general cold during days and nights actually afflicted him after all the long years in warm Rome. 

On cold days, his shoulder hurt. 

What a cruel twist of fate to banish him back to cold Britannia so that he may never forget why he had been send here with every move he took. 

He would get used to the weather though for better or worse. 

Maybe he could convince his shoulder of that as well some day. 

Winning his men's respect had been hard. Together with Ioannes, a priest had been send with him who was supposed to bring Christianity closer to the people here.

He hadn't been very successful.

Instead, the man had taken delight in a not very Christian way of informing everyone about who exactly their new centurion was (was it there any wonder that Ioannes was still rather bad in following his Christian beliefs taught as a youth in Rome?); that he had been the murdered Emperor's lover since that had been more or less an open secret at court (but since it had been the Emperor who had been his lover, that fact had made Ioannes untouchable against his illegal actions). Ioannes had been incensed about the man's petty cruelty, but he hadn't shown any emotion to the sneered jabs and veiled hints.

His biggest fear had been to fail. But the men weren't weary of him because of his past (Gregorius had even confined in him once that none of the men cared about that as long as he was a good leader and soldier; they had other worries here – like surviving – than caring about who their centurion took to bed) but because he was a stranger. Fortunately, that had been something Ioannes could do something about; he'd always been good winning friends, and he knew he was a good leader.

After he had shown his worth over and over in battle, leading his men into victory, but also protecting them, he had gained their respect and their loyalty.

Now, seven years later, he was one of them. They were a family, he and his most trusted men, a group of auxiliary troops from Gaul. Most of all, it had been his optio Gregorius who had stuck with him early on even when most of the men were still weary of him. The older man was the best friend he could wish for. He trusted him unconditionally...

Mutely, Ioannes trudged next to Gregorius and his other companions. He wasn't really in the mood tonight to spend his time in the tavern though. Not that there was much else to do in this god-forsaken pithole, and normally, he was the last to leave his comrades hanging on their tavern-mission, but today, he felt... melancholy. Maybe the anniversary of Gratian's death neared once again – out here, you sometimes lost track of time or the date –, his soul reacting instinctively to that. And although it had been seventeen years ago, it hurt as much as it had on that fateful day.

A rough paw landing on his shoulder dragged him from his thoughts brutally. He peeked over to Gregorius who, like the others, looked at him curiously. More compassion and perceptiveness glittered in his dark eyes though than in that of the others. Ioannes sighed. It had always been hard keeping secrets from Gregorius.

“Ev'rything all right?” the older man asked, and raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Ioannes returned that gaze impassively, then, he looked at his other, slightly impatient principales. He nodded curtly. “Of course.” He smiled a little crooked, and pointed in the direction of the tavern in front of them. “Let's go.” 

The other men grinned, and marched on after Gregorius, but not before he threw Ioannes a frown. 

For a moment, Ioannes stared after the others, undecided, before he pulled himself together and followed them. 

The fire in the hearth burned hotly in his back while cold air wafting in from the courtyard cooled his flushed cheeks. He closed his hand tighter around his cup, and watched the people around him; for now contend to simply observe instead of partaking in their merry. It matched his melancholy mood – or maybe, his melancholy tonight was actually the reason for his wish for solitary in the first place; he wasn't really sure.

Loud, angry voices drew the soldiers' attention. Alarmed, Ioannes looked up, and tried to make out the reason for the sudden commotion. His gaze roamed around the taproom until he spotted a group of men, some of his own soldiers as well as people from the surrounding village, that had crowded together. He could hear their bawling shouts even to where he sat, but he couldn't make out what it was all about. With an ominous feeling in his stomach, he got up and nodded at Gregorius who followed him immediately.

For a moment, Ioannes felt tired, unable and unwilling to deal with the petty situation before he straightened his spine, brushing away his weariness like a heavy cloak through the motion, and raised his voice to a loud commanding bellow, “What's going on here?”

Fortunately, he was very well acquainted with tavern brawls and how to defuse them so that his stern, raised voice immediately permeated his men's alcohol-induced brains without him having to embarrassingly repeat himself.

A couple of men – his soldiers – froze as if struck by lightning. When Ioannes came even closer, they scattered away, causing the rest of the men, civilians, to realise how serious the situation was. They froze as well.

Coolly, he let his gaze roam over his men, then looked down at the man curled up on the ground, obviously having ended up there because of punches and kicks to his defenceless body. Even before he could see the other man's face which he had tried to protect by wrapping his arms around his head, Ioannes caught a glimps of a, in his opinion hideous, brand in the man's neck half hidden by black, tousled curls, identifying him as a slave.

Ioannes had never been a man who tolerated injustice. And when the one being treated injustly was a slave, he didn't care. He didn't see slaves as soulless property, but saw the human behind the brand of owners. Even if they had slaves in the castellum of course, hell, he himself had slaves in his house, he tried his utmost to treat them like human beings. And that was why he would never stand for this cruel spectacle. 

“I won't ask a second time,” he therefore said in an icy tone.

The men looked at each other, and stepped from one foot to the other uneasily.

Ioannes waited motionlessly.

Eventually, one of the soldiers, Philippus Andronicus, stepped forth. Ioannes sighed inwardly. It wasn't the first time he became aware of the man because he caused trouble. And if he took in the bloody nose of the dark-haired man, he feared that Philippus once more was at the centre of trouble. 

“This slave attacked me,” Philippus promptly reported, and threw a nasty gaze at the man still lying on the floor. 

But Ioannes wasn't impressed by that. No slave would be suicidal enough to pick a fight with a free man. Most wouldn't even talk back in a situation such as this to defend themselves. 

“He started it,” the man laying on the floor spat, having dragged himself into a sitting position by now, and now managed to come to his feet solely aided by his obviously very stubborn will.

This slave obviously would. 

The young man, Ioannes estimated him to be in his mid-twenties, glared at the men standing around – obviously unconcerned about any repercussions to his disrespectful behaviour – and, finally, at Philippus with terrifying, unreal-looking steel-blue eyes, and Ioannes thought he saw a barely discernible glint of satisfaction in those eyes at the sight of the other's bloody nose. Black tousled curls framed his face while blood trickled down his own temple and oozed from his split lip. Nonetheless, the man lifted his chin proudly, and looked haughtily down at the others, which was possible not least because of his considerable size.

The soldier, offended in his honour, wanted to leap at the slave with a cry, but Gregorius held him back firmly. Ioannes paid no more attention to him. His full attention was on the man in front of him. His still unbroken fire captivated Ioannes. 

“What happened exactly?” he asked, and that startling eyes suddenly jerked onto Ioannes. He had to suppress a shudder, and force himself to stand still instead of taking an instinctive step back.

The slave only now seemed to really become aware of him. Apparently, Ioannes had not been worthy of the other's attention until now, but now that the man clearly recognised who he was, that had changed. He almost wished, if the shudder that ran all over his body was any indication, that he could somehow hide from the slave's attention. 

Mutely, he endured the intense scrutiny only by mustering up all of his bravery and stoic calm. Briefly, he wondered what the other man saw, and how he would judge him, but could in turn not make out any stirring in that handsome face at all.

“He grabbed me, and didn't want to accept a no. Where I'm from, everybody has the right to defend themselves if they have to fear for their honour and their body's virtue.”

Ioannes ignored the gurgling noises seething with rage Philippus made behind him.

“And where do you hail from?”

The man's chin raised that little bid more, his haughty gaze showed even more pride and disdain than before. “From the north.” 

“You're a Pict.”

He nodded.

“Your home lies beyond the Wall.”

“That is correct.”

For a small eternity, as it seemed, they stared at each other mutely. Ioannes didn't know if they tried to break the respective other's will with their staring or if something else was going on, something that he couldn't name yet.

“What's your name?” he asked eventually, his own voice sounding strange to him, muffled as if hearing it through wax in his ears. His throat was bone-dry. 

“Sherlock.”

“Well, Sherlock, you know what's awaiting a slave attacking a free man,” Ioannes began, and noticed the approving murmures full of satisfaction and spitefulness behind him as well as the still unbroken, proud gaze in front. “Nonetheless,” he therefore continued. “Out here, we have no use for such laws. The only thing that's important to me is my troops' moral and well-being. And honourable behaviour is an elemental part of that.” He threw a stern look over his shoulder which Philippus returned stubbornly for a moment, but then he flinched fearfully and lowered his eyes. “And when one under my command thinks that he can force his will onto another person, be it slave or free man or woman, and be it that he gives the excuse of having done it because of too much wine or any other disposition, I won't tolerate that.” With that, he turned to his soldiers. “We live a hard life, here, at the borders of civilisation, and I know that you live between the extremes of death and boredom. Therefore, it's all the more important to maintain discipline. Every moment, an attack can occure, and you will be dead before the fumes of the wine have dissipated when you loose control over yourself like that. If I witness such a scene like this one more time, there will be severe consequences. Did I make myself clear?”

He looked each single man in the eye; most of them couldn't stand Ioannes' gaze for even five seconds.

A collectively murmured “Yes, centurion” was their answer.

He nodded curtly in satisfaction. “You may go.”

Most of them did exactly that in the blink of an eye.

That left Ioannes alone with the slave. 

Almost.

He felt the reassuring presence of his second in comman and other principales in his back, but at that moment, they were more of a nuisance because he didn't know what he was going to do in the next few minutes, and he didn't want them to bear witness when he maybe did something stupid. 

“Gregorius,” he said therefore, and heard Gregorius step closer. “You may go as well.”

The older man hesitated for a moment longer, then his friends' steps retreated. 

Ioannes licked his dry lips while he felt paralysed under this intense gaze once more.

“Come with me,” he heard himself say while an inner voice cried out disbelievingly. 

Where he thought that, a second ago, he had read a certain amount of amazement and appreciation in Sherlock's eyes, now he suddenly stared at him solely with suspicion. 

“Why? So that you can finish what your henchman started?” Sherlock took a bold step towards Ioannes so that the height difference between them became even more painfully obvious. Damn Celts. They all were a head taller than the Romans. Even Gregorius and his men were taller than Ioannes, so he should actually be used by it now. But this man was a matter on its own...

“I surrender to no one, neither on the battlefield nor in bed,” the young man hissed.

Ioannes felt the compelling urge to avert his gaze under these relentless eyes, but he didn't want to yield,  _ couldn't _ yield, and therefore, he tried to stare Sherlock down once more. 

Obviously, he had met his match, because after some time, all tension bled out of both men's bodies so as if they had realised that none of them would budge, but nonetheless accepted that, and they came to a truce right now. 

“I just want to treat your wounds.” Ioannes' voice ripped through the silence surrounding them like a whip. 

“Why should a Roman centurion treat a Pictish slave's wounds?” There was suspicion in Sherlock's voice and... disbelief.

“Because it's been my men that hurt you, and my honour dictates me to offer you reparation.”

Sherlock still stared at him, assessing and sceptical. A deep, thoughtful crease appeared between his brows. 

Seemingly after a small eternity, he relaxed his body a bit, even if the superior, haughty expression remained on his face. “I accept. Go ahead.”

Ioannes hurried to turn around because he had to suppress sudden irritation about such prescumptuousness as well as an amused chuckle and unconcealed admiration. 

While he led Sherlock into the rather small praetorium and into his bedroom where he kept his medical supplies, he wondered who this man actually was. He'd never seen him before around here, which didn't have to mean anything. Once in a while, his men took Celts as their prisoners which they handed over to the quartermaster to sell them, or there could be found a suitable task for them in the castellum – which was, of course, against the rules, but Ioannes was willing to turn a blind eye. Since his loyal Gregorius had his eyes and ears everywhere, he wasn't worried that a potential political prisoner slipped through his fingers which could be valuable during negotiations with the Picts because of one soldier's greed. 

But Sherlock... The young man was obviously used to giving orders, and he seemed to be used that they were being followed as well. His haughtiness and his nobly cool behaviour clearly indicated that he was a member of his people's aristocracy – to that effect, all the nobles of every people in the world were the same. That was all Ioannes could deduce about him, though. And if he didn't want to torture it out of the man (futile with those Picts anyway since these men had an incredible high tolerance for pain, and they were stubborn as a mule), the only chance he had was asking. Which promised marvelous results, of course. So, if some highranking Pict didn't come knocking on his door demanding his son back, Ioannes would probably never know.

Frustrated, he frowned because somehow, he didn't find the notion of never letting Sherlock go again pretty alluring.

There was already a warm fire burning in the hearth of his quarters when Ioannes led the young slave into the house. He indicated a chair. “Sit down. I will care for your wounds in a moment.”

Without waiting to see if Sherlock complied with his wishes, he stuck his head out the door of his bedroom to order hot water and something to eat.

When he'd closed the door again, he remained standing there for a moment, his back to Sherlock, as he pressed his forehead to the smooth wood to compose himself for a second or two. Gathering all his courage, he finally turned around to his guest.

Expectantly, the young man met his gaze, but since Ioannes couldn't withstand this seemingly all-seeing gaze, he forced himself into action, moving through the room to fetch his medical supplies. During his time with his uncle, he had learned a lot, but nothing had been as useful to him until this day like his training in the arts of healing. Although it hadn't been enough to save Gratian, at least he had managed to help many other men instead, and the castellum's healer, Hermannus, was grateful for every capable hand. 

While rummaging around in his chests and cabinets for dressing material, herbs and potions, he felt Sherlock's gazes in his back like icy but at the same time white-hot needles. He had to suppress a shudder, and force himself to continue unfazed.

Relieved, he hurried back to the door when there was a knock, and he was handed a bowl with hot water.

He knew that Sherlock watched all this with the eyes of a hawk, probably wondering about the peculiar behaviour of a Roman centurion taking care for a Pictish slave as if he was a free man.

The aloof behaviour of the Pict couldn't hide the flinch that rippled through his body when Ioannes dragged a chair over next to his, and sat close to him. 

Ioannes could hear Sherlock's teeth gnashing as he tried to sit absolutely still while Ioannes treated his split lip and the bloody gush at his temple. 

“'M afraid I can't do much about the bruises,” Ioannes murmured apologetically. “I have a healing paste that may aid the healing.”

Sherlock nodded stoically, and allowed Ioannes to spread the herb paste on the worst of the bruises on Sherlock's face. 

“I need to... if you want me to...” Ioannes cleared his throat, and jerkily nodded at Sherlock's clothes.

Sucking in a deep breath, Sherlock froze for a moment. He watched Ioannes like a snake its prey, but the centurion held fast. 

Finally, once more grinding his teeth, Sherlock nodded, and started stripping out of his tunic with arduous, pain-addled moves.

Ioannes let out an angry, sympathetic hiss when he saw Sherlock's naked upper body that was black and blue in parts. 

“Your Philippus is an idiot,” Sherlock sneered.

“I agree, he is an idiot,” Ioannes said, deceptively calm. He grimly concentrated on treating the ugly bruises, because otherwise... He actually didn't know what he would have done. But when he detected the cracked rib on Sherlock's left side, he was sorely tempted to punish Philippus the way he deserved to be punished.

Sherlock made a thoughtfull noise, and Ioannes felt his eyes on him while he continued to treat him.

“You're part British, aren't you?”

The unexpected question caused the centurion to almost choke on his own breath.

“Excuse me?!” Incredulously, he looked up at this completely insolent man.

Who only shrugged, cocking his head curiously. 

“Just something I saw. So, who's your British parent? Mother or father?”

“You can't tell?” Ioannes sneered back sarcastically, still in shock about the cheek (but strangely, he never thought of disciplining Sherlock for it even once).

“I'd say mother, but I'm not completely sure.”

That shut the Roman up, and he stared at the slave rather stupidly for a couple of moments with his mouth hanging opening not very attractively.

Sherlock blinked all of a sudden. “Oh,” he made, his sinfully plump lips (and he didn't just thought – or noticed – _that_!) forming a perfect O. “Oh, was that... that was a bit not good, right?”

“A bit, yeah,” Ioannes confirmed weakly. 

“Yeah, sorry about that. I can't always tell.”

“Oh really.” The sarcasm went right over Sherlock's head, but it had been rather faint in the first place anyway.

Sherlock made a confirming noise, completely serious, and he looked as if he thought very hard about that right now.

Ioannes cleared his throat, and then again as he realised he still had his hands on Sherlock's naked side, right over the cracked rib, warm skin under his healing-paste sticky hands. He wrenched them away. “Well, rein yourself in a bit from now on. And be glad that it's me you're serving now. Another master would have... well, best not think about that.”

“Oh well, I'll try,” Sherlock agreed with an exasperated sigh.

“Hgnn.” Whatever Ioannes had wanted to say came out as a garbled mess. He still couldn't get over this man's attitude.

Wiping his hands on a cloth, he once more cleared his throat. “Just... Ehm, really do try. But... you're...” He took in a deep breath. “You're mine now, so, the first who dares to touch you will have to answer to me... Just thought you should know.”

Ioannes froze, and once more almost choked on his own breath. Why had he blurted  _ that _ out?!

Sherlock lowered his head, but Ioannes still caught the small chuckle on the man's face. 

Flustered at being caught out at this blazing act of possessiveness, he jumped up and brought as much distance between them as he could.

It was amazing how tiring guarding a wall could be. But here he was, just returning the praetorium from his day's tasks in the early evening. 

Ioannes sighed at the comforting warmth coming from the fire that was greeting him, and, just as he liked it, his personal slave Pelonius was preparing dinner judging by the delicious smells wafting through the house. The man seemed to have a knack for when Ioannes returned home. No matter how irregular his daily tasks were, there was always dinner waiting for him when he came in. 

But the last couple of evenings, the first thing he did before sitting down for dinner was looking in on Sherlock. For two nights in a row, Sherlock had already been asleep when Ioannes came back. His injuries must have taken more of a toll than they'd both thought, and more than Sherlock probably cared for (he just hoped he hadn't overlooked any more grave injuries like signs for internal bleeding that were causing the fatigue). But since Pelonius had assured him that Sherlock had at least eaten something, he left him to his healing sleep. 

To be honest, Ioannes wasn't quite sure what he should do with him once he was fully healed. He already had a reliable and faithful servant in Pelonius. When the time came, he would ask him if he would like to have some help in the house, expecting an honest answer, but until then...

Sherlock wasn't in the room Ioannes had assigned him (formerly being one of his guest bedrooms which he thought completely redundant here in a castellum at the arse end of nowhere anyway; at least Pelonius hadn't even batted an eye when Ioannes had, quite flustered, told him to ready one of the small bedrooms for his... guest). Eventually, he found the Pict in Ioannes' small study, perched on a chair like an overgrown vulture while he was bend over a book in utmost concentration.

The soft shuffling of Ioannes' shoes on the tiled floor drew Sherlock's attention.

Wide-eyed, his gaze flew up to where Ioannes was standing. They widened even more when he recognised him, and he jumped up as if stung by a bee. Standing completely frozen, the book clutched to his chest, Sherlock stared at Ioannes and vice versa. Neither man moved for a couple of seconds.

Cocking his head in interest, Ioannes realised that it was real fear he read in the wide eyes for a moment. He chuckled mentally. The man did seem to have some kind of self-preservation after all; he'd wondered about that given the slave's attitude towards his superiors.

Sherlock's body was taught as a bow string, ready to bolt any second now, probably depending on what Ioannes would do. And about that, Ioannes felt bad suddenly. He'd left the poor man traipsing around in the dark concerning his status in this house. He'd simply left him to his own means, and never told him what his tasks were from now on (as if Ioannes knew!), nor had he handed him over to Pelonius so that the older slave could have started to train him. 

He decided to remedy that default immediately.

“Peace,” he said softly, and raised his hands disarmingly. 

Sherlock clutched the book in his arms even tighter. “I... I don't...”

“It's okay,” Ioannes assured him. “I haven't forbidden you to come here or read the books, haven't I? So, it's quite alright.” He placed a hand over his chest. “If anything, it's been my fault. Forgive me for that.”

Marginally Sherlock calmed down, and the tension bled from him, Ioannes was glad to see. 

He gave the man a friendly smile. “You can read? Where did you learn?”

“We aren't animals,” the slave snapped back, his trepidation already forgotten it seemed confronted with a, apparently stupid, question. “Being able to read doesn't stop this side of the Wall.”

“Forgive me,” Ioannes said hastily, and if someone overheard them right now, they would declare him mad, apologising to his slave. Twice. 

He cleared his throat uncomfortably when heavy, awkward silence descended over them. Opening his mouth, he snapped it shut again without saying anything, first thinking about something safe to say that wouldn't cause Sherlock's ire.

“What are you reading?”

Blinking in surprise at the question, which had obviously been the right thing to ask, Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times before he could think of an answer. “You have that book on astronomy.”

“Oh yeah, that's interesting,” Ioannes smiled.

Sherlock shrugged awkwardly.

They stared at each other some more.

Eventually, Ioannes was fed up with this awkwardness between them, and stepped fully into the room. He moved slowly so as not to startle the Pict, and sat down on the chair in front of his desk. He clasped his hands in front of himself, and had to refrain from twiddling his thumbs.

“You're welcome to read all the books you like,” Ioannes broke the silence, and indicated the small bookshelf. “You may take them to your room if you like.”

“Oh, I've read the others already,” Sherlock answered, much to Ioannes' surprise. The centurion blinked at that as he tried to process what he had heard. “Well, most of them at least.”

“You have read all of those books?” Ioannes repeated. “When?”

“Most of them,” Sherlock corrected automatically before he clarified, “At home. My brother gave them to me when traders from this side of the Wall came into our village.”

Ioannes frowned at that.

“You know perfectly well that trade is allowed beyond the Wall in times of peace.”

“Yeah, sorry, you're right of course.”

“Anyway, I have books on botany, on law, medicine, and that one from Plinius,  _ naturalis historia _ . It's my favourite.”

Ioannes stared at Sherlock in amazement, marvelling at the sudden change that had gone through the stern Pict. The passion with which he spoke about his books, the slight flush of joy painting his cheeks, and the small, shy smile at the admission that he had a favourite book... Ioannes was smitten all of a sudden. So smitten in fact that he almost didn't catch Sherlock's next words.

“I just don't have anything about astronomy, and when I saw it in your shelf.” He shrugged. “I want to read more about the stars and the sun being the centre of the universe.”

“You've not come very far with your reading, haven't you?”

“Why?” Sherlock frowned, and automatically looked down at the book which he now pried away from his hold against his chest. 

“You do realise that the  _ sun _ moves around the  _ Earth _ , right?” Ioannes snorted.

Sherlock crinkled his nose. “Really?”

“Yes,” Ioannes laughed good-naturedly. “That's what all the experts say.” He nodded at the book Sherlock still held clasped in his hand. “Just... just keep on reading.”

And with that, desperately trying to keep in a snicker, Ioannes rushed from the room before he started laughing out loud.

When he was reclining in the warm water of his bath later on, only then did Ioannes realise he hadn't talked about what Sherlock was supposed to do around the house.

The next couple of evenings, Ioannes caught himself hurrying home. Because at home, he had fallen into the habit of visiting with Sherlock in his room, talking about his reading for a couple of minutes. Only, at one point, they started talking for longer than a couple of minutes, and eventually, Ioannes coaxed Sherlock out of his room to dine with him in the evenings (including having to force some food into the man; Gods, he was like a stick – the healer in him moaned in protest).

And when Sherlock had read all of Ioannes' books, the centurion caught himself buying one or two new ones. Because _he_ was interested in them, of course. Not because Sherlock wanted to read more... what a preposterous thought.

At last, he had come around to discuss some household tasks with Sherlock since he was at home the whole day, and lounging around like a lazy snake in the sun wasn't a proper job, especially not for a slave slash guest slash whatever. There had been much grumbling, but Sherlock had agreed to give Pelonius a hand here and there (that didn't mean he was any good at it; he rather had a knack for  _ causing _ chaos than getting rid of it, but Ioannes, much to his own annoyance, didn't really mind).

Some games found their way into their evening routine just to try it out. Ioannes' favourite was alea, but he vowed to himself never to play that game with Sherlock ever again since the Pict clearly cheated at it – and therefore beat him every time –, but Ioannes never managed to figure out _how_.

“That's what my brother always accused me of, too,” Sherlock snickered aloofly, and leaned back in his chair like a smug cat. “Not my fault if you're both too stupid for the game.”

“Thanks, really,” Ioannes scoffed sarcastically, then he perked up curiously. “You have alea in your village?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Or something like it. These games are all the same, don't you think? If you've seen one, you can do them all.”

Ioannes made a confirming, chuckling noise which he quickly tried to hide in his cup of wine.

“What I wanted to ask...”

The centurion looked up again when Sherlock's voice turned serious all of a sudden. The Pict didn't look at him but studied a tile in his hand. 

“Tidying up, I found a Celtic pendant...”

Ioannes tensed at that, and drew in a sharp breath.

“It was your mother's, wasn't it?”

Finally, Sherlock looked up, and met Ioannes' tense gaze. 

They got caught in a brief staring match that felt much, much longer to Ioannes though.

When he finally yielded, he thought about the dynamics of this outrageous relationship; him treating Sherlock like a friend instead of like a slave, conversing with him, dining with him and playing games – and now being about to confide in him. If anyone of his superiors, especially in Rome, ever got wind of that, he would get into a lot of trouble. Free Romans didn't treat their slaves like their friends, except for when they freed them. But... he couldn't do that, could he? Freeing Sherlock. He had to keep Sherlock with him to protect him, he told himself. It was the right thing to do. If a small, gleeful voice in the back of his mind taunted him that he simply didn't want to let Sherlock go because he liked his company, then he ignored that voice adamantly.

But here he was, wasn't he. Strange new world...

“It was,” he finally confirmed, a lump suddenly constricting his throat. 

“She died, didn't she?” Sherlock asked, not without earnest sympathy in his voice.

Ioannes nodded, and suddenly, he found himself telling this man whom he barely knew, whom he'd known just for a month now, about his parents. About his sister. About the attack. And... for the first time in his life, he told anyone about Gratian. 

Sherlock didn't judge him for his relationship. Ioannes hadn't thought he would. Not Sherlock.

“Do you miss your family?” Sherlock eventually asked softly.

“Yes,” Ioannes answered promptly. “And no. I can barely remember them. Maybe don't want to remember, I don't know,” he sighed, taking a deep gulp of wine to steady his nerves. “They were the reason I left Britannia.”

“And another lost loved one made you return here,” Sherlock added knowingly.

“Not out of my own free will, I assure you,” Ioannes snorted .

“Do you find it so bad here? It's a beautiful country.” Sherlock cocked his head as he looked at Ioannes sadly. “It's your home.”

“It's not my home,” Ioannes protested immediately, a little heatedly, but then he calmed down again, and sagged back in his chair as if his bones had turned to mash. “I don't think I've ever had a real home. At least not for the last twenty years.”

Sherlock pressed his lips tightly together as he thought this through. “ _This_ is your home,” he insisted. “This country. Maybe you don't realise it yet, but it's in your blood, in your soul. You just have to breathe it in, get a feel for it again.”

A small smile tugged at Ioannes' lips at Sherlock's passionate believes. 

“Isn't there a saying that the home is where the heart is? Always thought that's supposed to be a person.”

Sherlock scrunched up his nose. “Not neccessarily. Persons are unreliable, and caring for them isn't an advantage. The soil under your feet though won't ever betray you. Even your father knew that. He had a British wife, after all.”

Ioannes mulled that over, then shook his head with a soft smile. “'M not sure if his feelings were about the country instead of her. She could have hailed from anywhere, he would have loved her. _She_ was his heart, not this country.” He grinned. “Your argument doens't even make any sense.”

He snorted gently when Sherlock grimaced, and scrunched up his nose as he found his words used against him in his argument.

“You don't really know anything about human nature, do you?” he asked, forcing a soft tone into his voice to take the sting out of the words.

Sherlock pouted. “On the contrary, I know a lot about human nature. I know all about the dark abyss that is human nature.”

Ioannes rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but you know nothing about the matters of the heart.”

Sherlock's nose crinkled even more. 

“But she was part of this country,” he then tried to argue, picking up his earlier argument again. His pale eyes bore into Ioannes' eyes. “ _ You _ are part of this country, Ioan. Accept your ancestry. When the Romans are gone, fight for your country!”

“Why's it so important to you what I will do?” he asked softly, watching Sherlock closely, liking what he saw, and able to finally admit it at least in the late hours of the night in the soft light of candles, the wine taking a pleasantly sleepy effect on him already. “I'm just a man like everybody else.”

“You're not, Ioan,” Sherlock shook his head. “Not you.”

He quirked a small smile. “When the Romans leave this country, and when my service is over eventually, I think I'd like to go back to Rome.”

Sherlock sneered, and flung himself back in his chair with a disgusted noise, and a “stubborn” muttered under his breath that caused Ioannes to laugh softly.

Curled up in his chair now, Sherlock glared at Ioannes from under his black fringe.

“And what will you find there, Ioan?” he made a last attempt to defend his point, for whatever reason, “except memories?”

Sucking in a soft breath, Ioannes started turning that thought over and over in his mind, but eventually decided that it was much too late to think about a complicated future, and he was much too inebriated for it, too. 

But then, something registered with him. 

“Why are you calling me that? Ioan?” 

“You should know that it's the Celtic version of your name.” 

Ioannes thought about it for a while, and rudely suppressed the annoyance at Sherlock's insistence. “Hm... I like it,” was his answer, eventually. 

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. “Of course you do.”

And that was that.

Ioan gritted his teeth as he was rattled in his saddle. His arm burned like fire, and all he wanted was to fall into his bed. All in all though, their patrol could have gone worse. Just a few scratches here and there after a squabble with a few Picts. Nothing to moan about.

He amended that when he saw Sherlock waiting in front of the praetorium. The Pict took one look at him, and of course realised at once that he was hurt. 

Wincing slightly as he saw the thunderstorm suddenly gathering in Sherlock's face, he wished he had taken better care.

After Ioan had managed to get from his horse, Sherlock was gone when he turned around. Sighing heavily, he followed his slave into the house, and found him in Ioan's bedroom.

Sherlock stared at him out of his unnaturally light eyes when Ioan had closed the door, enraged, surprisingly worried, but also chastising. In the end, it was Ioan averting his eyes. 

“Take off your tunic.”

Sherlock's cold order made him snap up his gaze again, but the other man didn't look at him any more. Instead, he scrambled around for thread and needle, a bowl of water and clean bandages as well as an amphora with wine. His hands didn't shake, but his movements were jerky and curt. They missed the usual grace inherent to him.

Obediently, Ioan did as he was told. The difficulty it caused him to strip of his red officer's tunic seemed to bring Sherlock some grim satisfaction. Under Sherlock's watchful gaze, he slumped down into one of the chairs with laboured movements, his dusty, bloody tunic still in his hand. Ioan could hear Sherlock grinding his teeth when the Pict sat down next to him, the bowl with water beside him.

With the same jerky movements from before, Sherlock now inspected Ioan's arm. He wrinkled his nose seeing the deep cut running diagonally over Ioan's upper arm. The wound wasn't very bad, it would simply leave another scar, but Sherlock acted as if he had lost a hand.

“Unbelievable,” the younger man hissed through gritted teeth while busying himself with Ioan's arm brisquely. “I should sew up the tunic rather than your arm, it's more deserving of it than you,” he continued his ranting, reminging Ioan of a spitting cat that had been doused in water. The only thing that was needed to complete the image was his hair standing on end angrily. He was tempted to chuckle, but didn't dare to faced with Sherlock's ire already.

“I'm sorry,” he started carefully although he didn't even really know why he apologised in the first place. 

“As you should be!” Sherlock snapped, agitated. His hands suddenly started to shake impalpably. It was impossible for him to cintinue holding the bottle with alcohol which he had wanted to pour over Ioan's arm, let alone attempting to stitch up the wound.

Alarmed by this uncharacteristic emotional outburst, Ioan quickly reached for Sherlock's with his good hand. That made the younger man freeze immediately. First, he stared down at their intertwined fingers, then he raised his gaze to meet Ioan's.

The older man scolded himself a fool. Why hadn't he noticed the naked fear in Sherlock's eyes earlier? Maybe because it was something he had wished for so badly; wished that the other man would be sick with worry for him, so that now that it had become reality, he hadn't really registered with it.

“Please forgive me,” he begged ardently. “I will be more careful in the future.” 

He tried to show the sincerity of his promise not only through the sound of his voice, but also through his eyes. He hoped that Sherlock realised how sorry he was to have worried the other man so much, and how serious he was in his promise to be more careful in the future. Gently, he raised Sherlock's hand which he still held clasped in his own to his lips, and pressed a kiss onto his knuckles.

A shudder suddenly ran through the younger man. For a moment, time seemed to stand still around them. The only thing they still registered were the other's eyes as well as their touching hands. But then, Sherlock bridged the short distance between them and kissed Ioan. 

The blond let out a soft exhale of breath which he hadn't even noticed that he had held in. He was almost afraid to move lest Sherlock woke up from the spell he seemed to be under, and realised what he was doing.

But when Sherlock pulled back eventually, looking Ioan deeply in the eye, there was no regret in that silver gaze, no disgust, just... almost unbearable trust and want. 

“Make me yours,” Sherlock rasped suddenly, and Ioan froze for a moment.

“Are you sure?” was the only thing – the honourable thing to give Sherlock an out – he could think of to say in that moment. He didn't even pretend not to know what Sherlock meant.

“Yes.” There was no hesitancy at all in Sherlock's voice, and Ioan gulped. He stared at this amazing man for a couple of seconds longer before he leaned in again for another kiss, his decision made.

Gently, he drew Sherlock up by their still clasped hands, and blindly led him over to his bed while still being locked in that deep, but oh so innocent kiss. Once there, he pulled back for a moment, but instead wrapped his arms firmly around Sherlock's light frame so he could lower the taller man onto the mattress. He stood over him for a moment, taking him in, all those long limbs and those beautiful, trusting eyes that seemed to pierce his soul.

Swallowing heavily, Ioan couldn't believe what he may have done to be blessed with this divine vision. But he didn't want to question his incredible luck for once in his life. Instead, he forced himself to move, and climbed into bed as well. He crawled over Sherlock's body until he blanketed him completely with his own body while he kissed him deeply again. The sharp sting of pain that raced up his arm when he held himself propped over Sherlock was but a nuisance at the moment. His body was much too preoccupied with other sensations than caring for the pain. 

Seemingly instinctively, Sherlock spread his long legs so that Ioan slipped between them, warm thighs coming up to cage him firmly between them. He pulled back to look Sherlock in the eye. The light eyes were dilated, and Sherlock stared up at Ioan with a look full of awe and wonder that humbled Ioan deeply. He swallowed heavily, and reached up a shaky hand to caress Sherlock's cheek. The utter beauty of this man...

Raising trembling arms, Sherlock wrapped them around Ioan's neck to pull him back into a kiss while he arched up his hips in an unmistakable, demanding gesture.

A single, small oil lamp was the only source of light in the otherwise dark room. It was just enough for Ioan to watch Sherlock sleep peacefully beside him. The warm light bathed pale skin in a golden sheen, and Ioan couldn't help himself but reach out to gently brush the tips of his fingers over the smooth expanse of Sherlock's back that was laid out before him like a feast. Unwittingly, a joyful smile broke out on Ioan's face, and under his hand, instead of silk-like, peacefully resting flesh, he once more felt slippery skin and flexing muscles, felt the slightly muscled chest heave underneath him, and a strong heart hammering against Ioan's own. In his mind, he still heard Sherlock's breathless, almost painful moans and little cries as Ioan brought him pleasure. Still felt the firm pressure of long legs being wrapped around his waist in a death grip in the desperate attempt to hold on for dear life as he buried himself inside Sherlock, over and over and over. 

If he had to be honest, Ioan had never experienced such ecstasy nor such peace as he had tonight. He had been happy with Gratian, but he'd never been his. Ioan had loved the Emperor; he could never be just Ioan's. They'd have always had to live a life in fear. Fear of being discovered by all the prying, envious eyes that constantly watched the Emperor. And they'd always have to live in fear of Gratian's political enemies. That had turned out to be their doom, but who knew what would have happened if Gratian had lived. If they wouldn't eventually have been killed because of their love in a few years' time. 

What he had with Sherlock now was dangerous as well, but it was a completely different world they were living in, too. This wasn't Rome. Wasn't the imperial court where every one of your steps was under scrutinity. More or less, nobody cared out here whom Ioan took to his bed. And so, for now, he and Sherlock could be happy in their own little bubble of peace in a world of danger, in a world that was falling apart. Nothing was certain in this world, so they better enjoy what they had every day anew.

As much as Ioan enjoyed Sherlock's company, that didn't mean that the man didn't drive him absolutely spare at times. The haughty Pict was prone to boredom which he expressed in the most audible and expressive ways possible. If Ioan had had any doubts left that Sherlock was nobility, then his petulant behaviour when he was bored once again was the final proof. 

Eventually though, Sherlock steered the immense power he unfolded during his fits of boredom to something more productive. Ioan almost burst with pride when Sherlock, because he was bored, attempted to solve a series of thefts. It was amazing to watch him detect even the smallest hints, and read people's thoughts and emotions like an open book (at least Ioan wasn't the only on he did it to, so maybe the centurion wasn't as transparent as he may have feared, that it was just Sherlock who could read him so well).

The successful solving of the thefts actually gave Ioan an excuse for something he had wanted to do for some time now. 

Telling Sherlock it was intended as a reward, Ioan stoically stopped in front of the Pict to pin an intricately wrought, golden dragon cloakpin to Sherlock's clothes. 

Although Ioan didn't treat Sherlock like a slave, he _was_ a slave, and he couldn't just go around giving him presents. Ioan couldn't even set Sherlock free, even if he may have wanted to, but the Pict wasn't his personal property but that of the army. 

Incredulously, Sherlock stared down at his chest where Ioan was busy fastening his cloakpin to Sherlock's tunic with slightly clumsy but intent fingers. 

“But,” Sherlock breathed. “It was your father's.”

Determined, Ioan kept his serious gaze fixed onto what his fingers were doing, stubbornly not commenting on that latest deduction. “Still, I want you to wear it,” he answered evasively.

“Why?”

At last, Ioan looked up at him, grimacing slightly that, clearly, Sherlock didn't buy his “I want you to have this as a reward for solving the thefts”. He swallowe thickly. “So that...”

“That you think of me whenever you wear it; that everybody knows that you belong with me,” but he couldn't say that out loud. 

“It's only a cloakpin,” he answered casually instead. “It looks much better when you are wearing it. I always thought it was much too pompous and... dramatic for me.”

He expected a witty come back from Sherlock to that, even a petulant one, or some know-it-all protest that Sherlock couldn't possible wear something so precious as a slave, but Sherlock kept silent. Instead, Ioan felt him draw in a deep, shaky breath under his hands where he was still fumbling with the clasp of the pin. 

For a short moment, he made the mistake to look up into wide grey eyes that regarded him with a mix of disbelief, confusion, helplessness, fear, and... something else. He sighed, and lowered his gaze again. Finally, the needle of the pin snapped closed without Ioan having embarrassed himself by pricking his finger. 

Sherlock must know that what Ioan was doing was outrageous. He probably saw right through Ioan's reasons as well. Could very well be that he, knowing Sherlock, was shocked now about Ioan's sentimentality. After all, what were they to each other? Sherlock was Ioan's slave, and although Ioan would never have forced the other man into his bed, Sherlock surely must feel obliged to him on a certain level because he had saved him at the tavern, and had treated him so good which, with another master, wouldn't have been garantueed. Ioan was sure that Sherlock felt a certain amount of fondness for him, surely even lust, but nothing more. Not what Ioan felt for him in turn; feelings he experienced lately which he hadn't felt since that short time he had been happy with Gratian. A feeling that awoke a strength in him that made him feel as if he could move mountains, conquer empires. His chest felt as if it was too small for his heart filled to bursting with joy and warmth. It surely would shatter any moment now when Sherlock continued to look at him like that.

Eventually, Sherlock seemed to compose himself again because, after swallowing heavily, a weak but sardonic chuckle tugged at his face. “And you think pompous is fitting me more?”

Ioan snorted at that, the strange, intimate mood that had settled over them dissipating all at once. “'Course. You  _ are _ a pompous git, you know that, right?”

“Flattering, my dear Ioan, flattering,” Sherlock snorted sarcastically, but nonetheless put his hand firmly over the cloakpin at his chest, craddling it like his own heart. And for that split-second, Ioan thought that just maybe, Sherlock felt more for Ioan than the Roman thought...

“Do you want me to let you go?” he suddenly burst out, without thinking or any kind of plan on what he would say further.

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to him, and the Pict stared at him in utter shock.

“W-what?”

Ioan felt an embarrassed blush creeping onto his cheeks. “You hate it when I repeat me, Sherlock, but do you want to be free? I would... let you go. You're the cleverest man I know, you would make it far, probably even over the Wall and home.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Sherlock frowned. “Do you want me to go, Ioan?”

“What? Ehm, I... That's not the question...” he stammered, flustered, and wanted to take a step away from Sherlock. But the taller man quickly grasped his shoulders to keep him right where he was. 

“Nonetheless, I want an answer.”

Ioan snorted sarcastically. “Of course you want... but okay, no, I don't want you to go.”

Sherlock hard gaze softened, and what Ioan realised now had been fear bled from Sherlock's eyes.

“Then no. I don't want to go.”

“But...”

“I could have left any time I wanted, you should realise that, Ioan,” Sherlock lectured him, and Ioan cocked an eyebrow. He didn't believe the Pict for one second, of course. Otherwise, he would have fled from the castellum long before Ioan had even met him. 

Shaking his head instead fondly, Ioan patted Sherlock's cheek mockingly, marvelling at the man's audacity. It was endearing, even if it was nerve-wracking.

“If there was one human being who would have managed it, then it's you, Sherlock,” he chuckled, and only meant it partly in mocking.

Deciding to ignore Ioan's sarcasm or maybe not getting it once again, Sherlock nodded curtly. “See. I could have escaped long ago, but I chose to stay with you, Ioan.” He took a step closer. So close that their chests touched, and, like he had to do so often in the last couple of weeks when they were so close to each other, Ioan had to tilt his head back to look up at Sherlock. It never annoyed him though because it meant that he could be so close to Sherlock. Piercing, ligh-grey eyes searched his imploringly. “I  _ want _ to stay with you, Ioan.”

Ioan swallowed heavily while his heart swelled with joy, almost suffocating him. He didn't want to think all that closely about what it might mean that Sherlock wanted to stay with him. That the slave may feel more for him than simple gratefulness and basic affections. That maybe...

“Stop thinking, Ioan, and take me to bed already.”

A mad giggle burst out of Ioan, and he hastened to comply with Sherlock's wishes. 

Everything went so fast. In one second, he and Sherlock had dined together in the early evening, in the next, chaos had broken lose, their peaceful moments together shattered brutally.

As if in a blur, figures invaded the house like malevolent shadows, accompanied by battle cries and shouting; Ioan thought he heard Gregorius' voice somewhere from afar.

His instincts reacted before his brain, and before he even identified the intruders as Celts, his sword was in his hand, and he was urging Sherlock behind the protection of his body. While Ioan was fighting them off, Gregorius and some of his soldiers stormed into the room to aid Ioan.

Something moved in the corner of his eye. He turned, but he immediately sensed that he was too slow. In the last second, he saw the warrior with his drawn bow. It was too late, he couldn't avoid the deadly arrow.

As if in slow motion, a blurry figure suddenly moved in front of Ioan, blocking his view of his would-be-killer. A sharp whooshing noise when the arrow was released and a pained grunt reached his ears as if through wax. Then, the tall figure in front of him crumbled, and time seemed to pass normally again.

Horrified, he realised that it had been Sherlock throwing himself in the path of the arrow to protect Ioan. Now, the man he loved lay crumbled by his feet.

Incandescent rage gripped Ioan, and he looked up. For a moment, he met the Celt's eyes, then, he hurled his sword at the man without thinking, the sharp blade embedding itself in the man's chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Trusting that Gregorius would take care of the rest of the intruders, Ioan fell to his knees beside Sherlock, frantically searching for signs of life.

Finding a fluttering pulse, he breathed a sigh of relief, and the pained groan that tumbled over Sherlock's lips was the sweest sound he had ever heard.

Nonetheless, his joy was short-lived when he registered the arrow protruding from Sherlock's chest. His blood ran cold.

 _No. Gods, please, no. Don't take him from me_ , he thought, beside himself with fear. But he had to keep a clear head right now if he wanted to save Sherlock. It hadn't been in his power to save Gratian, but he knew he could save Sherlock. He was a medic. A good one. He just had to remember that right now.

Someone – Dagonet, he later realised – helped him carry Sherlock into his bedroom where Ioan lost no time gathering his medical supplies.

A pained gasp from the bed made him hurry up.

“No, don't!” he cried when, as he returned to the bed, he caught Sherlock weakly trying to pull the arrow from his chest. He slapped the man's hands away, and spread out his supplies. Pelonius appeared at his side with a bowl of steaming-hot water, and he grunted a noise of thanks.

In that moment, Sherlock became a bit more lucid again, and once more tried to pull the arrow from his chest with weak but determined hands.

“No, Sherlock. You'll loose too much blood. Pelonius, hold him,” Ioan instructed. His slave did as he was told, and in the next second, Gregorius joined them in keeping Sherlock still.

“Poisoned,” Sherlock managed to get out with difficulty as he found that he couldn't move any more. 

Once again, Ioan's blood ran cold, and his frantic gaze zoomed in on the arrow.

“How do you know?”

“Blue feathers,” Sherlock choked out through gritted teeth while he fought against Pelonius' grip with surprising strength. “Always poisoned.” 

With deceptively calm fingers, Ioan immediately pulled the arrow out himself. He realised that he would stand a better chance by stopping the bleeding than fighting the poison spreading through Sherlock's body if he kept the arrow in. 

The only reaction Sherlock allowed himself to show as the sharp arrow head was pulled from his ripped flesh was a flinch that rippled through his whole body and a grunt. Otherwise, he remained completely unfazed, the stubborn bastard. 

Somehow, Ioan managed to find that inner calm he always felt when in the midst of a battle or tending to the wounded. He couldn't do anything about the poison yet, but what he could do was dressing the wound.

“Can you tell me about this poison, Sherlock?” he asked urgently while cleaning all the blood away from Sherlock's chest.

“Not really,” the Pict admitted through gritted teeth, closely watching what Ioan was doing. “Every tribe has its own mixture. I only know that foxglove is a vital part in the poison, but I don't know any more about it.” He gasped softly when a wave of pain wrecked his body for a second. “There is no cure here.”

“But there has to  _ be _ a cure!” Ioan cried, agitated and near complete desperation by now. 

“There is. But only our Druids know.”

“How impractical,” Gregorius commented grumpily while he continued handing Ioan more bandages. 

“Oh yes,” Sherlock gasped. “At the moment, it is indeed.”

The centurion looked up at Gregorius, then met Sherlock's feverish gaze. He swallowed heavily. The poison was already showing its deadly effects. 

Rationally, Ioan knew he couldn't mix up a cure with so few information about the formula, but giving up wasn't an option. Letting Sherlock  _die_ wasn't an option.

Fretting for a moment as to what to do, Ioan then scrambled from the bed determinedly. “I'll find a cure,” he vowed. “Pelonious, get Hermannus in here, I need him.”

Giving Sherlock one last, reassuring smile that probably couldn't fool Sherlock, Ioan stormed from the room, turning command over to Gregorius for now since he knew his friend would do everything in his power to make sure Ioan's men were fine while the centurion could make sure that this one particular man was fine.

He didn't know how long he consulted every book he had together with Hermannus while consulting frantically with the castellum's healer, how often he paced up and down in his private herb garden of the praetorium, stopped at every healing plant he had, going through their healing properties inside his head in the hope of having an epiphany.

He didn't find anything. 

The only thing he found was a general formula for a basic healing paste that was supposed to slow down the effets of plant-based poisons.

It was long after midnight when Ioan sat next to Sherlock's sleeping form to apply the healing paste, clinging to the hope that it would buy Sherlock at least a few hours until he could find a solution.

But deep down, Ioan knew there wasn't one. Finding a cure didn't lay in his powers. 

There was only one chance Sherlock had at surviving: Letting him go back to his people. 

Ioan's heart almost shattered at the thought, but looking at Sherlock, tossing around in a restless sleep, his whole body drenched in cold sweat but with his skin burning up under Ioan's fingers, he knew that he couldn't risk Sherlock's death.

Time was running out on them, and all hope was lost to Ioan now. All of his knowledge had been for naught. It wasn't up to him any more.

He had to let Sherlock go.

It was complete madness even taking it into consideration. But when, in the early dawn, Ioan saddled his horse, he couldn't deny that it was the right thing to do despite the lingering uneasiness about his endeavour. He couldn't let Sherlock die, and if the price for Sherlock's life would be severe consequences for Ioan himself because he had let go a slave who was property of the Roman army, then so be it. 

A shadow fell into the stable from the door as he led his horse into that direction. He blinked into the rising sunlight.

“Where are you going?”

He sighed. He should have known that Gregorius would notice that his friend planned something. The only question was; would the older man stop him?

“I'm taking Sherlock back to his people,” he explained calmly.

The other man entered the stables completely now, blocking Ioan's way. Now, he could see his friend's face clearly. Disbelief stared at him out of deep brown eyes, and he was met with a violent frown and thin lips pressed tightly together. But at the same time, he didn't look all that surprised.

“I can't let him die,” Ioan stressed. “And when only a Pictish Druid knows the cure that will safe Sherlock's life, then I will accept the consequences for letting him go.” 

For a long moment, both men tried to stare each other down. Eventually, Gregorius' shoulders sagged, and he sighed lougly. “Why 'm I trying to argue with you.” 

He turned around to leave the stables again without another word.

Shell-shocked, Ioan stared after him. “G-gregorius,” he stammered, confused.

His friend came to a stop, and looked at him over his shoulder. He threw him a crooked smile. “I know how much you love him. Every idiot who knows you to some degree can see that. So, how could I stand in your way when you want to save the man you love.” 

The crooked smile on his lips curled into a sarcastic expression. 

“Even if he is a horrible nuisance, and I don't know what you're seeing in him... Frankly, I don't want to know,” he added hastily. 

Ioan couldn't help himself, he returned the smile even if it wasn't as sarcastic since it was streaked with gratitude to have such a faithful friend.

Gregorius nodded his chin in the direction of the gate. “Go. I'll cover for you.”

Ioan blinked back the sudden tears of touched gratitude that stubbornly wanted to spill from his eyes, and he nodded mutely, a lump constricting his throat, making it impossible to say something. But it wasn't necessary anyway.

Ioan tried to ignore the uneasiness he had felt after giving his men order to open the gate. The thing was horribly rusty since nobody ever opened it since it was supposed to keep the Picts out, not invite them in. 

He still felt their inquisitive gazes boring into his back when he had steered his horse through the huge wings of the gate, riding into enemy territory with Sherlock's weak body sitting in front of him, but Gregorius' comforting, gruff bark ordering the men about accompanied and comforted him as he put more and more distance between himself and the Wall. 

Instinctively, he tightened his hold around the delirious man sitting in front of him in the saddle.

It was about a mile before the open, grassy planes of the prohibited area suddenly turned into a thick, dark forest. 

He stopped his horse a couple of metres before the first trees. The beast danced around nervously, picking up on its rider's own trepidation. Squinting his eyes, Ioan stared into the darkness of the forest.

Sitting utterly still, John stared into the dark canopies of the trees in front of him with squinted eyes.

“I know you're there,” he called out with a much firmer voice than he felt.

“Show yourself, I'm unarmed,” he continued, tightening his hold around Sherlock. “This is your man. He needs help.”

For a few moments, nothing happened, and he couldn't even blame them; he would have anticipated a trap, too. 

But after a few more excruciating minutes, something stirred in the darkness, and slowly, a couple of shapes materialised from between the trees.

One of them stepped out into broad daylight. His fingers were closed around a battle axe tightly, ready for an attack, and dark eyes stared at Ioan suspiciously out of the blue-painted face of a warrior.

“What happened?” the leader asked in a heavy accent, and, coming closer, eyed Sherlock up and down with an unmistakable, surprising expression of sudden shocked worry.

“He was poisoned with an arrow from one of your people.”

The Pict snorted dismissively. “Why would we attack our own people?”

Ioan gritted his teeth. “He sacrifised himself for me.”

The leader flinched in astonished surprise, and Ioan could think of a couple of reasons why. His shrewd eyes scrutinised Ioan intensely which would have made the hardened soldier squirm if he weren't used already to the much more frightening glare of Sherlock. 

“He said that only your Druids know the cure.”

“That's right,” the Pict said eventually when he had finished his contemplation of Ioan. 

“Then here, take him. Take him back home to cure him.”

“But he's your slave, Roman,” the man protested, confused, and gradually, Ioan was fed up with that man questioning him. What was it with these stubborn Picts?

“No,” he snapped. “He is a free man, and I want him to live.”

For another long couple of minutes, the two men stared at each other, and Ioan gritted his teeth, fearing that the next question out of the Pict's mouth would be to demand to know _why_ Ioan was willing to let Sherlock go.

Fortunately, the man didn't. Instead, he nodded, and answered with a simple, “Very well.”

Carefully, between the two of them, they managed to get Sherlock down from the horse. After a small sign from the Pict, two others approached.

“The poison has processed very far already,” the Pict murmured as he took a quick look at Sherlock's wound before he handed the unconscious man over to his two warriors who carefully carried him away.

Sighing, the Pict looked up to Ioan who still sat stoically on his horse. “I don't know if he will make it.”

Ioan didn't show any outside reaction to that news, but his insides were in turmoil. “Please do everything you can.”

The Pict nodded, then he simply turned on his heel and marched away.

Ioan looked after them even long after they had disappeared in the thick forest.

His hands tightened around the reins of his horse so much that his knuckles turned white. He send a desperate prayer up to the Gods, begging them to have mercy on Sherlock and let him live, even if that may mean that Ioan would never see him again. If the stubborn bastard lived, he was willing to pay that price gladly.

Tearing his gaze away from the peaceful, ominious looking forest, he steered his horse around to return to his life looming dreadfully dull ahead of him without Sherlock.

It was probably thanks to Gregorius and the menacing presence of his principales that nobody adressed what had happened after Ioan returned, and he was sure he could thank his friends as well that there would, in all likelihood, be no repercussions from any superiors having learned of what Ioan had done.

He didn't care if there had been, though.

He was listless and moody the next couple of weeks, and his nights were filled with nightmares of Sherlock succumbing to the poison. The only way for him to find any sleep again after such a dream was thinking of the happy moments he had shared with Sherlock, but those thoughts left him aching and unhappy afterwards.

It took the news of a Saxon army having landed on British shores to tear Ioan out of his funk. 

And that an advance party of that army was heading right their way. Unfortunately, they were on the Roman side of the Wall, so that even that wouldn't give them any protection. 

Acting quickly, the only thing Ioan could do was evacuating as many villages as he could, sending all civilians, including his faithful yet stubborn Pelonius, westward where they would find protection in the bigger cities and castellums. 

He and his men stayed behind, vowing to protect the people and this country with everything they had. There would be no reeinforcement; the Romans were slowly drawing back from their outer territories, leaving the locals unprotected against invaders like the Saxons. Rome simply didn't care any more. But Ioan cared. Would have cared even if this country wasn't the place of his birth. He wouldn't leave these people or even this country to their fate.

Two tense days later, three hundred Saxons surged against the walls of the castellum like a storm tide.

And hours later, most of Ioan's men lay dead in the streets, slaughtered by the feral brutality of the foreign invaders. 

Tired to the bone, bloody, and on the verge of collapse, Ioan and a small group of his men, his principales and Gregorius among them, tried to hold their position, cornered between a burning building and the crumbling castellum wall. Though decimated in number, the Saxons still outnumbered them, but they would fight to their last breath.

Panting heavily, Ioan's tired fingers gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, the adrenalin coursing through his body giving him strength. A couple of Saxons had spotted them, and were now advancing on the tired soldiers. Gritting his teeth, he glared at the enemies.

“To the last, my friends,” he growled, and gruffy, determined answers could be heard behind and next to him.

The sudden, unexpected noise of more familiar battle cries carried through the air, and caused the blood in Ioan's veins to freeze.

The Picts.

Before he could gather even one clear thought, tall warriors, their faces painted blue, streamed through the hole in the crumbled wall and the shattered gate, descending over the Saxons like demons, devouring them whole.

But Ioan didn't have any time to be glad about the unexpected and maybe ultimately – for them, too – fatal aid since a couple of Saxons advanced on them with loud growles, their swords and axes raised high above their heads as they stormed in the Romans' direction.

Their muscles poised tensely, ready to strike, Ioan and his men waited for the enemies to come closer.

Blue demons suddenly flung themselves at the advancing Saxons with horrifying battle cries. A pure white horse broke through the remains of a barn, its rider, wearing a demonic, frightening mask, slashing at the Saxons left and right with his sword, fighting like the devil he probably was.

Within a couple of minutes, it was over. Eery silence suddenly settled over the spot where Ioan and his men still stood poised, ready for battle, while the cries of death of the Saxons started fading in the distance.

The demon warrior turned his horse around to them, the beast dancing agitatedly on the spot, its white coat spattered with Saxon blood. The man stared at them under his mask for a couple of moments, probably contemplating the best way to end their lives, when, suddenly, he put his sword away, and reached for his mask instead. 

Ioan held his breath in anticipation as the man pulled off the mask that was covering his head, and then, he felt his heart stop beating for a couple of seconds. 

Because who became visible underneath that mask was no other than... Sherlock.

With a violent lurch, Ioan's heart started beating again. Madly.

Sherlock lowered the mask, and shook out his black curls that were plastered to his head by sweat and the weight of the mask the same time his horse reared up on its hind legs, giving Sherlock the appearance of a god of war, the flashy, dramatic bastard. But oh, how good he looked, how  _ alive _ ! So proud and noble, a true warrior. The rosy flush of his cheeks from the passion of battle, his full lips... his flashing pale eyes, the black locks damp with sweat... Ioan had to swallow heavily as his blood once more started to boil in his body though not from the battle this time. He would have loved nothing more than to drag Sherlock from his horse and... 

Involuntarily, a small choked noise escaped him which he hoped nobody had noticed, least of all Sherlock who would be able to deduce Ioan's impure thoughts with taking barely a glance at him.

But Sherlock ignored them for now, and instead said something to his men in his people's tongue, then nodded at the Romans in general. Ioan's men tensed beside him, and he himself caught himself becoming suspicious, too. 

“You have to come with us,” Sherlock said calmly. “Please don't put up a fight. Nothing will happen to you.”

And just like that, all tension bled from Ioan. 

Maybe it was madness, but Sherlock's word was good enough for him. He gave his men orders to surrender peacefully, even if a gruff bark from Gregorius was necessary to silence the protests, especially of his principales, since Ioan didn't care about what was happening behind him anymore. The only thing he could concentrate on was Sherlock. Alive!

Their eyes met for a small eternity. Unspoken feelings and emotions passing between them during that short moment. But then, Sherlock nodded at him, and steered his horse away.

Ioan was disappointed, but he put up no resistance when Sherlock's men led them away, out of the destroyed castellum, and through the gate into the land of the Picts.

They took their weapons, but they weren't tied up on their journey. They were even given their horses that had been saved from the stables which appeased at least some of his men and ceased their grumbling. 

Nonetheless, that didn't stop the men from worrying what would happen to them. Ioan could understand them even if he wasn't all that happy about some of the men's fantasies running wild as they wondered – out loud, worrying some of the younger men in their midst like that – if the stories about the Picts were true, that they sacrificed humans or that they were eating their enemies. If Sherlock could hear them – he probably could –, he would very likely roll his eyes, and give the men a stern lecture about being stupid. But as he was riding at the front of the group, the Pict didn't intervene.

Personally, Ioan doubted that any harm should come to them. Up until now, they were treated like guests instead of prisoners. But until he hadn't talked to Sherlock, he couldn't be sure of anything.

Much to his frustration, his former lover kept his distance. Even his attempts talking to him in the evening when they all were sat around various fires were for naught. The thought that Sherlock maybe didn't want to talk to him hurt more than Ioan liked. 

They reached their destination the next evening. Being led into a surprisingly large settlement, a sturdy wall made of earth and wood surrounding the round, reed-roofed houses, the men looked around in awe. None of them had ever seen a Pictish settlement since they were too far away from the Wall, in the heart of the country.

They were led into two big houses that had guards stationed at the entrance; Ioan and his principales in one, the other five soldiers who had survived into the other. Ioan send Dagonet with them to keep an eye on the still young, fidgety men. Nobody wanted to cause an incident that would get them all killed after all.

A warm fire was already burning in the hearth in the middle of the house. Eagerly, the men crowded around the blissful heat. A couple of minutes later, some women brought them a generous dinner. Since they were completely famished, they quickly violated their knightly discipline of no meat or alcohol during a military campagne to eat their fill of the deliciously smelling roasted meat they had been brought as well as the surprisingly good ale (of course, Ioan and his men weren't lightweights concerning alcohol – guarding the Wall didn't hold that much variety and excitement, no matter what some may believe, and therefore, the only thing you could do for long periods on end was gambling, eating, and drinking in moderation; the Roman army's severe discipline wasn't what it had been a couple of centuries earlier anyway, nobody gave a damn by now, especially now that Rome gave up on Britannia).

A short moment of tension was caused by three Picts coming into their tent, but they just were here to deliver a couple of roughly snatched up bundles. 

The Roman knights' eyes widened when they discovered what was hidden beneath the rough cloth. Some personal items and a change of clothing from each of their personal belongings. The largest bundle contained some of Ioan's clothes, personal items, too, like his mother's pendant – thank the Gods –, his medical supplies as well as... his breath hitched softly... his books. Touching the precious papers with shaking fingertips, he tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. It wasn't hard to guess who was responsible for this touching generosity.

The gesture made Ioan even more desperate to finally talk to Sherlock. 

But he didn't come. 

He spend the night lying awake, every single second filled with thoughts of Sherlock, knowing perfectly well that the other man was here somewhere, not even that far from Ioan, and didn't want to see him for whatever reason.

Although the friends were certain by now that no harm would come to them because of the surprising hospitality, they still couldn't get over their sombre mood that still held all of them in its tight grip. Their fate was still unsure, even if they wouldn't be killed. After all, Gregorius had voiced it last night: Their eyes hadn't been blindfolded on the whole way here. Since they could rule out death by now, that could only mean that they were supposed to stay here. But for what? That was what was worrying them...

But since, for now, they saw no chance of escaping from the village, Ioan urged them to be careful and to exercise moderation.

Their hosts were just in the process of clearing away the remains of the breakfast when a finely clothed man entered the house. When Ioan recognised him, he jumped up. His heart beat up in his throat all of a sudden.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, and tried to catch Sherlock's gaze while he took an unconscious step towards him. As in the last couple of days, he just looked at him briefly but intensely. A glowing, yearning fire gleamed in his until now distant seeming eyes, and Ioan only recognised that look because, finally, they were so close to each other. His heart hitched once more under that gaze. The sudden warmth in his core that had sprung up seeing Sherlock, started rushing through his whole body as he saw that Sherlock wore the dragon cloakpin from Ioan's father. 

But before he could express his joy about that, the Pict turned to adress all of Ioan's men.

“My brother wants to talk to you,” he explained in a calm tone of voice which didn't allow for any objections.

“Your brother?” Ioan asked, puzzled, whereupon Sherlock nodded. 

“King Mycroft.”

Ioan heard his men's sharp intakes of breath behind him. He himself could only stare at Sherlock speechlessly. Briefly, his gaze strayed to the twisted golden necklace adorning the tall man's slender neck, a symbol of power and noble birth with the Picts. Ioan had known that already, but he had never fathomed... “Your... You are,” he stammered overwhelmed, but then, he quickly shook his head. “It doesn't matter,” he murmured. “Take us to him.”

While they followed Sherlock through the village, Ioan's men stuck their heads together.

“The brother of the Pictish king was our prisoner this whole time?!” Gallahad hissed. Fortunately, he didn't add “and Ioannes let him  _ go _ ?!”.

“If we'd only known,” Gawain agreed. “How valuable he would've been for us.” 

“Stop it,” Ioan hissed over his shoulder, and threw every single one of his chattering men a harsh glare.

They were silent for the rest of the way.

King Mycroft wasn't anything like Ioan had imagined (if he had imagined the man at all). Regal, aloof, frighteningly intelligent eyes piercing him when they were led into the biggest house in the village right before the throne. They were so similar to Sherlock's. But that was where the resemblance ended. The king hadn't Sherlock's fey-like looks. 

Next to the king, on a smaller throne, sat a woman of striking appearance with long, dark hair. She bore the same regal appearance as the king and Sherlock. She was probably queen Anthea, a woman, although no Roman had ever seen her, whose beauty was said to be legendary.

Ioan wasn't sure how they should act in front of the king. Of course, Sherlock had forgotten to tell them about such small details like protocol. Or he simply didn't care (knowing him, the latter probably was true). 

Not wanting to appear submissive in front of his enemies' king, but neither wanting to be rude, Ioan inclined his head respectfully, but nothing more. 

The king's pale gray eyes once more took him in from head to toe, and Ioan wanted to squirm under that oh so familiar gaze. If Mycroft was only remotely as intelligent as his little brother, then the man knew what had happened between them, even if Sherlock hadn't told him (which he probably hadn't; Sherlock was as private about such intimate matters as Ioan was). Meeting the family had never been as awkward as now, Ioan decided.

“Thank you for coming here,” the king spoke up, and Ioan was hard pressed to ignore the barely perceptible amused smugness in his voice.

“It's an honour, king Mycroft,” Ioan replied, managing to sound completely sincere.

A corner of the king's mouth twitched, but he didn't adress the matter any further. 

“I am sorry for your losses, Ioan,” he said, and he actually sounded sincere. The king continued, and after Ioan had recovered somewhat from the shock of being adressed so familiarly, he listened attentively to the king. “I believe we have a mutual enemy in these Saxons. Granted, we had our differences...”

Ioan gritted his teeth as he, suddenly, had to think about his mother and sister being killed during a Pictish ambush, but he said nothing. If the king deduced what thoughts were running through Ioan's head, he didn't say anything either.

“But these heathens have no honour. They are like a pestilence spreading through our land, destroying everything on their way.”

Ioan couldn't help but agree with the king on that. He nodded curtly.

“I understand that Rome is leaving these lands, and although I am very grateful for that, the time is... unfortunate.”

Ioan didn't point out that the Saxons were invading Britannia  _ because _ the Romans left, but the king must know that very well himself.

“What do you propose?” Ioan asked, fed up with the waiting and the talking around wrapped in pompous words.

“An alliance.”

The blond man frowned. “Rome won't be interested in that. They are leaving. They don't care for this land or its people.”

“No, but you do.”

Blinking, Ioan stared at the king, suddenly thrown. “But... I am only one man.”

“Oh, don't sell yourself short. You and your knights are legendary. And we, much as most people do in this world, honour great warriors.”

“I...” He threw a quick glance to the side where he knew Gregorius was standing next to him in silent support as did he sense the rest of his principales were standing behind him like one force. “We feel honoured by that, but still, the Saxons have an army.”

“Never underestimate the power of faith,” the king argued, and he leaned forward on his throne to stare at Ioan. “Maybe you don't see it yet, but I believe that you are the link to unite our people.” He leaned back again, and, fortunately, ceised his intense staring. “Not every Roman is leaving Britannia. We are no barbarians, we are amenable to co-existing peacefully. These people, if we like it or not, have called these lands their home for generations now, too. And nowadays, there are more people like you, men and women of mixed blood, than true Romans – or even Picts. Times are changing, and although we want to be free in our own country, we would be fools not to accept these changing times.”

Ioan's head was reeling. What was it the king wanted from him? He somehow understood that the king thought him to be some kind of figurehead of two people, even if he couldn't understand why  _ him _ . But that was a role he could assume in times of peace – and he actually considered it, even if his original plans had been to return to Rome... for whatever reason, for whatever he would still find there... Did he actually want him to lead the forces against the Saxons, too?

Speaking of forces... 

“This alliance you're speaking of... I don't think you will find many Roman soldiers who will be prepared to fight against the Saxons. Not when Rome is abandoning Britannia.”

The king chuckled softly. “As stubborn as my brother said.” He shook his head almost fondly. “They will fight for their home, didn't you hear a word I said? Not all of them, of course. Many will leave and never look back. But those who are at home here, who want to stay here,  _ will _ fight. And if you convince them of that, they will follow you. Together, we have a chance to save  _ our _ home.”

Once more, the king leaned forward, intently watching Ioan who was gnawing on his lower lip.

He had to think back on his conversation with Sherlock that now seemed an eternity away. What was it Sherlock had said? That this country was in his soul. That he was a part of it, and that his father had understood when he'd taken a woman of this country, making this soil his home... The home where the heart was...

Sherlock, who had remained standing next to Ioan the whole time he was facing the king, too, instead of joining his brother, shifted minutely. His shoulder suddenly touched Ioan's. Just a brief, feather-light touch, but it was enough to send a jolt through his whole body in crystal-clear awareness of his presence.

The home is where the heart is...

He sighed heavily in defeat.

“The Gods help me, but you are right.”

An actual, smug smile tugged at the king's lips, and his eyes twinkled in a haughtily amused manner. “Of course I am.”

Ioan wanted to burst out laughing since this was so  _ Sherlock _ . Certainly better than the alternative; to punch the king. A reaction that every member of this family Ioan met seemed to elicit in him. Probably not a good idea, punching the king.

After talking to king Mycroft, Ioan and his men were free to roam through the village on their own. His men gathered together outside one of their houses, finding strength and security in being close to their brothers in arms, but Ioan needed to be alone for now. So many thoughts were running through his head, giving him a headache, but he didn't have the strength to bring order into them. Not right now. 

Therefore, all he did for what seemed like hours was wander through the village, without any aim in mind or allowing for any special thought to get a grip on him.

When it was starting to become dark, one of the warriors approached him, and asked him to accompany him.

Curious but not worried, Ioan followed the man, and was brought into a rather big house. 

He was surprised and though not at all to see that it seemed to be Sherlock's home.

The Pict looked up when Ioan entered, apprehension clear to Ioan behind his closed-off face.

They remained frozen for a few minutes, both men staring at each other uneasily and unsure.

Eventually, Sherlock seemed to recall what good manners had been installed in him as a child, and indicated a chair close to the fireplace in the middle of the room.

Nodding in thanks, Ioan sat down. Unable to rein in his curiosity, the Roman looked around with blatant interest. The house was big, especially for one person alone, but Sherlock was royalty, after all. There were two rooms, the main room and a smaller one Ioan assumed was the bedroom. There were shelves along the walls with a lot of books and knickknacks. The table next to Ioan was cluttered with... well, Ioan couldn't really identify most of the items, but given Sherlock's fondness for experimenting with all kinds of things in Ioan's own house, he supposed these things were there for a scientific purpose. 

Suddenly, his roaming gaze met Sherlock's. The Pict's gaze was closed-off and thoughtful though he couldn't really hide the burning emotions in his eyes when he looked at Ioan. Awkwardly he cleared his throat. 

“I, ehm, thank you for my books,” he mumbled then. “And the personal belongings of the others, too.”

A sudden gentle blush covered Sherlock's cheeks, and he evaded Ioan's gaze nervously. “Well, I... I have to admit that at first, I just wanted to take your things, but...” Sherlock grimaced unhappily at that. “Then I thought that it probably wouldn't be fair to them, and surely you'd have been angry with me, so...”

Helplessly, the Pict shrugged.

His heart suddenly starting to pound like mad, a gentle smile spread over Ioan's whole face. He was incredibly touched by Sherlock's awkward, sweet gesture, and his whole being was filled to bursting with joy and love for this impossible man.

Unable to hold back any longer, Ioan surged up from his seat to lean over. Sherlock's eyes widened for a split-second at Ioan's sudden move, and then, he froze completely when the centurion pressed his lips to Sherlock's.

But the younger man was paralysed only for a short moment. In the next second, he came out of his frozen state, and eagerly returned Ioan's kiss. Pressing as close as possible to the Roman, he wrapped his arms tightly around Ioan's neck.

Both men sighed into each other's mouths in joyful relief at being reunited again after all this time.

But there was something that, now that he had Sherlock back, gnawed away at Ioan's mind. Pulling back from Sherlock, taking in the younger man, his flushed cheeks and his heaving chest, Ioan cleared his throat. Ignoring the sudden flush that spread over his own cheeks, he soldiered on bravely. Raising his slightly trembling arms, he cupped Sherlock's cheeks in his hands.

He pressed close to him again until their lips almost touched. “I want you to take me,” he whispered heatedly against the Pict's lips. 

Sherlock's breath puffing against his lips came to a stuttering halt. “Ioan...” he breathed disbelievingly. 

“I'm serious, Sherlock,” he insisted as he saw Sherlock's hesitant expression.

Sherlock cocked his head, and contemplated Ioan closely. “You don't have to do that just because you think our roles are reversed now. You are a guest here, and still a free man. And by the way...” A small chuckle twitched at Sherlock's lips. “I actually liked how it was between us. We don't need to change anything in our relationship.”

Ioan pressed his lips together firmly in frustration. “But I beg you, Sherlock. I accept what you are saying, but nonetheless, I want us to be equals. Please, believe me, I always wanted to take that step with you, but a small part of my deeply ingrained upbringing always held me back. With Gratian, it was expected and alright that I, as the one of lower social standing, was to be the one to yield in bed, but with you... Please, forgive me. I should have taken that step a long time ago. At least I want to take it now. Let us be real equals now, Sherlock. Please.”

He started to squirm uncomfortably when Sherlock didn't say anything, just stared at him for a long time gravely.

“Like your brother said, times are changing,” he hastened to add, desperate to get his point across since taking that step was incredibly important to him all of a sudden. “We're at the cusp of a whole new world. It will be _our_ world. Let's enter this new world as equal partners.”

When Sherlock still didn't react, Ioan feared that he had said too much somehow, that Sherlock would turn him away now since he had shown too much of his real feelings. But before the mounting panic inside of him could overpower him, a gentle smile softened Sherlock's unfathomable stare.

Relieved beyond measures, Ioan gladly allowed Sherlock to wrap his arms around him tightly.

“You are such a ridiculous romantic, Ioan,” Sherlock chuckled fondly, shaking his head incredulously. “But I seem to be unable to deny you anything.”

Ioan couldn't help the slightly soppy smirk spreading over his face. “Good.”

And with that, he pulled Sherlock into a deep kiss.

Their flushed skin gradually cooling down again, Ioan pressed close to Sherlock's back, enjoying the skin on skin contact. It almost felt even more intimate than what they had shared with each other a few moments ago. With soft fingers, Ioan brushed Sherlock's sweaty hair aside, baring the white skin of the back of his neck. The golden ring he wore around his neck softly reflected the spare light of the dying fire from the next room, and beneath it... Ioan's fingers hovered above an ugly, uneven, and still freshly-red burn scar. Ioan knew what lay underneath that scar; the ugly brand of owners that had been forced into Sherlock's skin the day he had been taken prisoner and made into a slave.

But that was the past. Once and for all. 

A new world indeed.

“I love you,” Ioan burst out suddenly.

Sherlock stiffened in his arms for a second before he shuffled around in Ioan's arms. A broad smile abruptly broke out on Sherlock's face. “You're so stupid, Ioan,” Sherlock chuckled.

“Wha...”

Sherlock cupped his cheek in his hand. “Don't look so scared. Don't you know that I love you, too?”

Ioan blinked stupidly. Had he heard right?

He must have, judging by the way Sherlock's smile turned into a smug smirk.

A small, choked noise of utter joy got stuck in Ioan's throat while he embraced Sherlock tightly. 

Filled to the brim with bliss, they both fell into a deep, content sleep, tightly wrapped in each other's arms.

Sherlock's village grew smaller and smaller behind them as Ioan, Sherlock, and Ioan's principales urged their horses on. They had a mission to accomplish; motivate enough people to fight the Saxons while Sherlock's brother concentrated all of his warriors. 

Messengers had already been send to all the Pictish villages the day the Saxons had landed in Britannia, so for now, the Picts had a temporary advantage during which they could form a strategy. With or without the help of the Romans, they would have to fight, no matter what. They were ready though.

Now, it was Ioan's task to be the man Mycroft and Sherlock saw in him. A man who could lead his people into the battle to fight for their home.

Ioan sneaked a discrete peek at the Pict riding at his side. 

He didn't know what this battle would entail for him. But he knew, even if Sherlock would scoff at his ridiculous romantic thoughts, that he, with Sherlock at his side, would triumph.

Ioan closed his eyes, finally giving his bone-weary body a chance to relax and find peace. His whole body ached from the battle, and he had sustained a nasty wound to his leg which would hamper him for a while, but he was used to battle wounds, it wasn't a big deal. He was overly aware of Sherlock's warm, strong arms keeping such a tight hold on him as if it would be the last time he got the chance to do that.

Maybe that was the case.

Ioan was contemplating – rather half-heartedly, he had to admit – to finally return to Rome after all. 

Those of Ioan's men – those he had managed to convince to fight with him against the Saxons just a couple of days ago, too – who had survived were preparing for their journey home or settle down for good in these lands. They were free now, their duty to the Roman army fulfilled. Some of his principales instead had sworn to follow Ioan wherever he would go. The only exceptions where Gregorius and Bors. They wanted to stay here. Not only in Britannia but here with the Picts. Gregorius, surprisingly, had taken a sudden, passionate interest in Màiri, queen Anthea's little sister. The feelings were obviously mutual, and Gregorius had gained the respect of the Picts during the battle, so a wedding was soon looming on the horizon for his friend. And for Bors... well, he would stay for his lover and their many children, and he had already send for them to live here in Sherlock's village; Ioan's boorish but fiercely loyal principal had been invited to stay after he and the Picts had realised that they weren't all that different from each other, and got along fabulously. Well. Good for him. And for Gregorius. He wished them all the luck and happiness in the world.

And he was happy that they had their lives planned out for them so minutely. Unlike Ioan...

He wanted to stay with Sherlock, really. He wished for nothing more in his whole life, but by now, he wasn't so sure any more if it would be such a good idea. Who was he here? The lover of the king's brother. Great. He wouldn't have a position here like that, no purpose in the eyes of the society. Surely some would consider him nothing more than a royal's whore. Ioan knew how that felt very well, knew how much it hurt to be seen that way. And how dangerous it could be. The Picts couldn't possibly be more open about two men loving each other as equals than Rome...

“Stay,” Sherlock suddenly pleaded into the darkness, so as if he had correctly read what went through Ioan's agitated, troubled mind. 

The centurion sighed. 

“Sherlock... I shouldn't...”

“Why not!” the Pict demanded, sitting up, clearly hurt. “I thought we agreed on it. This is ridiculous.”

Ioan immediately missed his warmth, but since there was no avoiding this conversation, he sat up as well, ignoring the throbbing pain in his leg. “We didn't agree on anything. Please understand, I can't possibly stay. But... you could come with me. To Rome.”

It was a stupid suggestion, and Ioan regretted it the moment he had spoken the words. Why was he even considering something like that?

As if predicted, Sherlock scoffed. “I would be a stranger there. Worse, nothing more than a slave.”

Bristling with mounting desperation, Ioan turned to him although he couldn't see him clearly in the darkness. He couldn't hold back his real thoughts any more. “And what would  _I_ be if I stayed  _here_ ?!”

“My equal,” Sherlock simply said which shut Ioan up effectively, all heat bleeding from his body all of a sudden, so Sherlock pressed on for good measure. “Do you really think I want us to be equals just in bed? Here, at my brother's court, you will be my partner. In Rome, we could never be anything to each other.”

Oh, as if Ioan didn't know that!

But... could it really be so easy? Could be possible here what wasn't possible in Rome, the centre of the known world?

“I'd still be a stranger,” he tried one last feeble attempt at arguing, probably just for the sake of arguing, really. “Even if your people accept me...”

At Sherlock's growling, agitated answer, Ioan now sat up, too, and in the relativ darkness, felt Sherlock's glare upon his person.

“One would get the impression that you're looking for excuses so that you _can_ go!” Sherlock bristled testily, and Ioan felt his accusing, dangerous stare like something physical.

“No!” he hastily assured. “That's not true, Sherlock, really.”

“Could have fooled me,” the Pict huffed. “Anyway. With my people, courage and honour as a warrior are important, not the origin of a man. You wouldn't ever have to worry about not being accepted or being respected here. It was _you_ who led us all to victory over the Saxons after all!” 

Suddenly, Sherlock shuffled around until he was kneeling on the bed in front of Ioan, an oddly formal expression on his angular face. He took Ioan's hands firmly in his.

“There is this ritual my people have,” he began to explain. “It's some kind of a blood brothers' rite. I want us to perform it. That way, you would be a member of the royal family. You'd be untouchable in my society.” An eager, excited gleam suddenly stole itself into Sherlock's eyes now that he started to get all worked up about the topic. “This union would be even more sacred than a traditional marriage.”

Ioan frowned as he contemplated the offer as well as the whole concept of this strange rite. “Well, fine, but... but why would you do such a thing? Go to such lengths?” He cocked his head questioningly. “Didn't you just say that your people would respect me because of what I've done, not where I come from? So why?”

Sherlock once more bristled at that, clearly uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Because I say so since I know what's good for you, that's why.” 

Ioan snorted. But gradually, he was warming up to the concept. And really;  had he actually any real reason to return to Rome? All sense of duty he had felt towards Rome had died on the battlefield against the Saxons. If Ioan stayed here, then he would be a free man, and could shape his future any way he wanted, even at Sherlock's side, it seemed. And he could help form this country, too. He would serve a purpose that was possibly even greater and more important than Rome.

He couldn't help but press Sherlock some more on his motives. “Because I say so” wasn't enough for him all of a sudden. “That's all? Our... union is not just a means to an end on your brother's part to unite Romans and Picts?”

Sherlock scrunched up his nose. “Yes... No... Màiri and your Georgius can do that.”

“Gregorius.”

“Whatever.”

Ioan cocked an eyebrow expectantly and waited.

Eventually, Sherlock started to squirm under his inquiring gaze.

“Alright,” he moaned in exasperation, and threw his hands into the air like a stroppy toddler, the pout on his full lips reinforcing that image, but Ioan could clearly see the blush of embarrassment that graced Sherlock's cheeks. “I... I just want to...”

Ioan let him sweat for a bit more, before he dropped his stern expression, and smirked fondly. “Idiot,” he smiled gently. “Come here.”

Willingly, Sherlock rushed into the offered embrace.

“Just tell me that you want to marry me,” Ioan chuckled, and Sherlock started squirming in his arms. 

“I don't want to marry you,” he grumbled petulantly.

“Of course not,” Ioan snickered, and tightened his hold around Sherlock. Burying his nose in the black curls, inhaling deeply, he sighed softly. “Ridiculous romantic,” he whispered mockingly.

Sherlock's answering, petulant growl made him burst out in a snicker.

They held each other for a couple of minutes, basking in each other's closeness before...

“Was that a yes?”

Ioan fondly rolled his eyes. “Yes, Sherlock. That was a yes.”

“Hmpf. Could've told me straight away.”

Ioan felt compelled to shut Sherlock up with a kiss.

**End**

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe it's not all that obvious, but what inspired me to this story was the Jerry Bruckheimer King Arthur movie which I like very much, no matter how historically accurate it is (or isn't).  
> In some parts of my story, I tried to be as historically accurate as possible, but I find the late Roman times very complex, and therefore, I took some artistic liberties to fit the story (for example that Mycroft is king of all Picts; in reality, there were many clans. And the Picts were still seen as the enemy from the British-Roman people in the 5th century. There is no the-whole-land-is-united-now-under-King-Arthur as is suggested in the movie; there were many more wars and scuffles in the following times, but for the sake of Sherlock and John enjoying a life in peace after the Saxons are defeated, we ignore that).  
> Oh, and since some of the story is based on the King Arthur movie, I simply borrowed Arthur's knights for my story to be Ioan's principales, and just threw in their names here and there where it fit without going into their characters any further. If you've seen the movie, you'll know who they are and what they're like, if not, I believe it didn't really make a difference in understanding the story.  
> Thanks for reading!


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